


Webbing

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Prompto faces one of life’s worst trials.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 23
Kudos: 72





	Webbing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Prompto’s entire body goes cold, fingers trembling around the cheap plastic shell of his phone. The seventh car pulls in front of him, and it’s too late; even if every single NPC misses the next two power ups and he swerves just right to catch them, he’ll never catch up. He’ll clock in eight place again and have to redo the _whole cup_ from the beginning. 

His tire skids over a spike, and the tricked-out pink jeep goes up in flames, exploding in a hailstorm of spitting ash and cinder. The red _game over_ screen consumes everything else. Prompto’s lost. _Again._

He takes a deep breath. When he was a child, he would’ve been tempted to throw the phone halfway across the room like Noctis sometimes does when he loses, but Prompto never had that kind of money and couldn’t afford to trash electronics, so instead he’d just curl up into a ball and cry. He’s too old for that now, but he does get that sinking feeling in his gut and the voices in his head that whisper _he’ll never make it onto the leaderboards._ He shouldn’t have downloaded the game in the first place. He could barely beat the story mode of Justice Monsters X on console, so he should’ve known he’d fail miserably at the online mobile version. But Prompto Argentum isn’t a quitter. So he boots the game up again before realizing his hands are too sweaty for him to have any hope in hell of winning. 

He kind of wants to splash water on his face and lean over the sink like a pro athlete before a big game, and then maybe give himself a cheesy speech in the mirror. Then remind himself he got in shape, he befriended the prince, and he snagged a super hot boyfriend totally out of his league—theoretically, he’s unstoppable. He tosses the phone onto the pillow beside him and climbs off his bed, meandering through the hall. Maybe he’ll have a shower. And then he’ll make a big, hearty lunch. And then he’ll obliterate the sewer level like Gladiolus’s pecs popping buttons off a slim-fit shirt. 

He takes one step into the bathroom, catches his admirably determined-looking reflection in the mirror, and then shrieks like a teenager and leaps right out. His heart’s suddenly beating faster than it was when his car triggered an oil trap. He’s breathing so hard that he half expects his lungs to give up and collapse.

It takes several seconds for him to get in enough control of his senses to move. His head hasn’t swiveled once, instead fixed on the ceiling with rapt attention—all unease, no awe. Then he dares a quick glance back at the sink, trying to judge the distance. But it’s no use.

The spider’s directly over it. If Prompto goes to wash his hands, and the spider decides to release its unholy suction-cup grip on the ceiling, it’ll fall right into Prompto’s hair. And Prompto will be too busy having a heart attack to see where it is and get it out. It’ll crawl all over him, and maybe even into the mouth of his corpse when he inevitably crumples to the floor. 

He’s aware he’s an idiot. Prompto knows he’s a full-grown adult that should be able to take care of a simple matter like bugs in his apartment. He is, after all, unstoppable. But dealing with spiders isn’t anything like carefully keeping conscious of nutrition and rigorously exercising or humiliating himself in the pursuit of an amazing friend or vainly trying to seduce a total bombshell. His courage just doesn’t extend that far. 

He knows it’ll have to. He doesn’t necessarily have to wash his hands this time. He can just live his life being sweaty. But he only has one washroom, and sooner or later, he’s going to have to use it. He’s going to have to handle this crisis. 

He’s saved by the phone ringing. Except it’s not much of a save, because to get it, he’ll have to take his eyes off the spider, and then it could sprint away and hide absolutely anywhere and wait for the perfect time to emerge and terrorize him all over again.

On the third ring, Prompto bolts to the bed, snatches up his cell, and is in the mouth of the bathroom door in a heartbeat. He tries to keep the panic attack out of his voice when he answers, “Hello?”

 _“Good afternoon,”_ Ignis smoothly answers, voice suave and serene and all the things Prompto isn’t at that moment. “How’s your weekend going?”

“Uh...” Prompto starts, nervously stuttering when the spider moves two centimeters to the right, still perilously close to the sink area. “F... fine? I didn’t have to work today, so... that’s great... you?”

There’s a short pause before Ignis bluntly says, _“You sound upset.”_

“What? No, I’m fine. Totally fine.” By any reasonable definition, he is. It’s not like his life’s actually in danger. It just feels like it is.

 _“Prompto,”_ Ignis gently prods, _“Please be honest with me.”_

Prompto swallows. “It’s nothing. Seriously.” Ignis makes a humming noise that doesn’t sound convinced, so Prompto adds, “Really. You’ve got your hands full taking care of Noct; you don’t need to hear my lame problems.”

_“I was going to ask if you would like to have dinner tonight.”_

Prompto would love too. Always does. Any meal with Ignis is wonderful, but dinners are the best, because they lead to dessert. Except Ignis usually makes him wash his hands before eating and now he can’t. He doesn’t have hand soap by the kitchen sink. Ignis will want him to use soap.

_“...But if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll hop in the car and race right over.”_

Maybe Prompto kind of wants that. Really wants that. He could use something to take his mind off the fact that spiders exist. He hopes this doesn’t wind up in another string off too-real arachnid nightmares again. 

Of course, Gladiolus and Noctis would never let him hear the end of it if word got out he’s terrified of certain bugs, not just the giant monster kind, but especially the tiny, wriggling kind that could crawl under your clothes and fester under your skin.

Shuddering, Prompto admits, “There’s, um... a spider on my ceiling... and I’m kind of a coward.” Totally a coward. Which he didn’t want to say, but he can’t lie to Ignis.

Ignis quietly laughs; the sort of light amusement that doesn’t feel mean-spirited and doesn’t make Prompto feel _too_ bad. _“It’s alright, Prompto. You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve served our dear prince in the same capacity.”_

“Seriously, I don’t know how anyone lives without you.”

_“Better, because they probably learn to handle things for themselves.”_

There’s absolutely no judgment in Ignis’ voice, but Prompto still mumbles, “Ugh, I know... if I’m gonna be in the Crownsguard, I really gotta step up my game.”

_“Normally, I would agree. Except this is a somewhat adorable problem to have, and I confess I wouldn’t mind stopping by to rescue my cute boyfriend.”_

Prompto’s cheeks are pink. He can just barely see that in the mirror. He should’ve known Ignis would save him. Noctis may be Prompto’s beloved prince, but Ignis is his knight in shining armour.

He still checks, because he knows it’s too much, “Yeah?”

_“Yeah.”_

“’Cause I’d be, like... forever grateful.”

_“Grateful enough to back me up the next time I force Noct to eat vegetables?”_

That’s a tough one. “Aw, man,” Prompto whines. “Can’t I just give you a handie or something?”

Ignis snorts. Prompto decides too late that that was too crude for Ignis, but then, Ignis still agrees, _“I’ll be right over, darling.”_

“Love you, Iggy.” That’s really all there is to it. He can never say it enough.

It still always surprises and melts him when Ignis answers, _“I love you too.”_ Then the phone clicks, and it’s just Prompto and the eight-legged menace.

“You’re in for it now,” he mutters, glaring a hole into his own ceiling. “My boyfriend’s a trained assassin with a pole-arm he can summon from the prince’s own armiger. You don’t stand a chance.”

The spider twitches.

Then it scurries towards the shower like it knows its days are numbered, and Prompto yelps and lurches after it to make sure it doesn’t escape into the ether of his apartment.


End file.
